


for you, darling, i'd give you the world

by ihavetoomuchfreetime



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Art, Coffee, Flirting, M/M, Pining, Starbucks, zayn is shameless and liam is cute
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-13
Updated: 2015-02-13
Packaged: 2018-03-12 06:24:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,763
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3346841
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ihavetoomuchfreetime/pseuds/ihavetoomuchfreetime
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>zayn is uninspired, and liam becomes his muse.</p><p>or, a fic in which zayn flirts shamelessly with liam, the barista at starbucks who blushes way too easily.</p>
            </blockquote>





	for you, darling, i'd give you the world

**Author's Note:**

> this was literally an excuse for me to write cute flirty ziam because i have absolutely no chill
> 
> i have exams to revise for but LMAOOOO i ain't doing that  
> this is, as my fics usually are, unbeta'd because i'm a lazy sod who writes things and then edits them after posting them
> 
> hope y'all enjoy x

***

**and for you, darling, i'd give you the world**

***

 

Zayn’s fingertips drum against the paper of his notebook as he brings his coffee up to his lips and sips, before placing it down on the table with a heavy and incredibly weary sigh. Outside, people pass by the window, blissfully unaware of his constant struggle, milling in and out of other pedestrians as they battle the chilling February wind. He watches in muted envy, watches how they appear to be relaxed and calm as they commute and move about their daily lives, seemingly _content_ with their current state of existence.

He covets their rapture, inwardly seething at his own incompetence to just do his _fucking_ job, but he can’t do his job because he’s stuck.

Zayn’s stuck. He’s fallen into a gaping, deep and dark abyss that is hopelessly aphotic and crepuscular, and he _loathes it_.

Once, months ago now – it seems a lifetime away – he had inspiration. He had a passion to do what he loves, to draw and to paint and to capture things in paintings and drawings that words and pictures couldn’t and can’t do. He had a muse then, and he doesn’t have one now, and he’s

Her name was Perrie and she was a beacon of light in an otherwise bleak world. She had loved him and he had loved her, and she posed for pictures and giggled at his shitty jokes and smiled at him with bright eyes and slow grins that spread across her face like dripping molasses. She _inspired_ Zayn, she brought his creativity to the surface so that it was dancing on the tips of his fingers. She was a perfect muse.

 _Was_. Past tense.

She and Zayn drifted apart over time, as people do, before she faded and lost light, and Zayn, in turn, lost his creativity - his _lust_ for art and drawing.

 But he needs it back. Desperately. He _craves_ it; he longs for something to fill that ever deepening hole in his chest that tobacco or weed or Jack Daniels can satisfy.

But, as he expected once she faded into nothingness, he needs a muse. A person, not a drink or something to put between your lips and inhale into your blackened lungs -  a _human being_ that he can behold and admire and capture with the same beauty that they possess.

He has found no such person, and thus, he sits in a lonely Starbucks in Stratford, sipping an overpriced chai latte and despising everything in existence.

His eyes drop to his pad, bare and white as the day it was bought, before he exhales heavily. “Fuck,” he sighs, pulling a cigarette from behind his ear and bringing it to his lips and reaches into his pocket to fish out a lighter, and just as he’s about to flick it on, someone taps his on the shoulder.

“Um,” the person begins, “It’s illegal for you to smoke indoors. Has been for a while now.”

Zayn turns to fix the person with a dirty glare before lighting his cigarette inside in spite, but as he turns to do so, the frown falls of his face and the creases between his brows smooth out, because –

It’s a boy. A man, even – his age with brown hair that’s short at the sides and long at the top, styled into a messy and lazy quiff that Zayn wouldn’t have pulled off but looks amazing on the guy. His eyes are brown – no, brown isn’t accurate enough - they’re honey coloured with flecks of deep chestnut brown and golds and greens that sparkle in the dim light of the coffee bar – and he has soft, pillow red lips and a jawline so sharp that it could cut diamonds.

Zayn would describe his as gorgeous, but that wouldn’t be accurate enough. Ethereal is better suited.

“Mate,” the guy prompts, pulling Zayn out of a premature reverie, “you can’t smoke in here. Outside, if you wanna do that, yeah?”

“Yeah, sure, cool,” Zayn says dumbly, pulling the cigarette from his lips and tucking it behind his ear again. He turns to look at the guy, spinning on his chair so that his body is facing the other man’s, so that Zayn can look at him properly. The man – Liam, his nametag reads – frowns.

“Have – have I got something on my face?” Liam asks, bringing his hands up his face to wipe away an imaginary substance.

“Nah,” Zayn says, dragging his eyes away from the way Liam’s run his tongue over his lips to Liam’s eyes, before he lets a smile curve it’s away across his lips. “Your face is fine. More than, in fact.”

And, he has better pick-up lines that that, but his brain is foggy. Also, Harry is an awful influence. Zayn cannot be held completely responsible.

Liam’s cheeks flood red, but he fixes Zayn with an unimpressed stare. “Is that how you pull, then? Shitty chat up lines?”

Zayn laughs lazily, flicking his air out of his face and leaning back onto the table, propping himself up on his elbows and smirks. “Well, when I pull I’m not usually in Starbucks on a Thursday morning, am I?”

The corners of Liam’s lip twitch up into a smile, but he just rolls his eyes and says, “If you wanna smoke, then go outside,” before strutting back to the counter, his hips swaying slightly as he goes, and Zayn’s eyes follow him across the room.

*

That night, when Zayn gets home, he spends two hours trying to mix the perfect colour of brown for Liam’s eyes with watercolour pencils, and then spends three hours trying to consummate the painting.

*

It’s Friday, and Zayn has finished smoking his cigarette and snuffs it out on the red brick outside of Starbucks before swinging the door open and walking in, sauntering over to the counter and smiling when his eyes meet Liam’s.

“Hello again,” Liam greets with a smile. He’s wearing the typical, mandatory green apron and the all black-uniform, but he’s got a black and white bandana tucked into the back pocket of his jeans, and thick rimmed glasses that’s covered by his hair that falls loosely over his forehead, devoid of product. “What can I get you?”

“You wear glasses,” Zayn remarks, ignoring the question. “You weren’t wearing them yesterday.”

“You’re not smoking,” Liam shoots back with a grin.

“Observant,” Zayn quips.

“Now enhanced with my wonderful glasses,” Liam teases back. “What can I get you?”

It’s awful, but Zayn has to try. “Your number,” he says, and then regrets everything.

Liam doesn’t even bother holding in a sigh. “That,” he begins, “was awful. Despicable.”

“I know,” Zayn winces. “I’m not proud of myself.”

Liam giggles – _giggles_ – and the corners of his eyes crinkle in an adorable way which Zayn knows he just _has_ to capture. “Now,” Liam starts. “Less do this properly, no more stupid flirting.”

Zayn smiles, obliging. “Just a venti espresso,” he smiles, “but don’t lie, you liked the flirting, didn’t you?”

Liam rolls his eyes. “And what makes you think that?”

“Because you flirt back,” he grins with a wink, and Liam’s face reddens considerably before he turns away and busies himself with making Zayn’s drink, sneaking glances over his shoulder that he thinks Zayn won’t notice.

*

That evening, between eating smoked chicken from foil take out boxes and watching BBC Newsnight, Zayn draws his lips, next, red and plump and glistening with saliva.

And later that night, whether he thinks about those lips wrapped around his cock is an entirely different matter. Nobody has to know.

*

Starbucks is mostly empty on Saturday mornings, and Liam greets him with an amused sigh, and Zayn just grins in response.

“You know,” Liam says, regarding Zayn in a curious and amused manner, “if I didn’t know any better, I’d say you’re courting me.”

“ _Courting_ ,” Zayn snorts, “this isn’t 1837.”

“Flirting, then,” Liam laughs back. “Or stalking.”

 _“Or_ ,” Zayn grins, leaning closer to Liam over the counter, “getting to know someone.”

Liam just exhales a laugh and averts his gaze, turning away from Zayn to fiddle with some cups. “Bit of a weird way to get to know someone.”

Zayn quirks a brow. “Oh really?” Liam nods. “And how would you suggest getting to know someone?”

Liam – bless him – _blushes_ , ducking his chin into his chest as he fiddles with the cups some more. “I dunno,” he mutters. “A date, or something. Like. Dinner. Perhaps. Maybe.”

Zayn tilts his head to the side and smirks. “Are you suggesting that I take you out, Liam?”

Liam grins. “I don’t even know your name.”

“It’s Zayn,” he supplies. “Zayn Malik.”

“Zayn,” Liam echoes back, a slow smile gracing his face. “It’s nice. Fancy. Suits you.”

Zayn grins and raises a teasing eyebrow. “Oh, I’m fancy, now, am I?”

Liam groans in a fondly exasperated way, before turning his back on Zayn and busying himself with cleaning the counter, and Zayn grins at him whenever their eyes meet accidentally.

*

Starbucks is closed on Sundays, unfortunately for Zayn, but he spends the morning lazily, clothed in his oversized Avengers pyjama bottoms and a loose grey tee, and spending hours trying to perfect Liam’s smiling eyes, trying to capture the very lure and pulchritude they harbour.

*

When Zayn saunters into the café on Monday morning, hair damp from the shower and tired eyes hidden behind glasses, Liam greets him with a grin.

“How did I know you’d be back, then?” Liam asks, grinning up at Zayn through the sweep of his eyelashes as he wipes down the counters.

“Fate, maybe,” Zayn teases with a lopsided grin as he props himself on his elbows and rests his chin on his fists.

Liam breathes out a laugh. “You know,” he begins, “if you want my number, you could just ask.”

“Ah,” Zayn smirks, leaning in so this his voice drops to almost a whisper, “but where’s the fun in that, Liam?”

The tips of Liam’s ear redden and his cheeks flood red. “Is it fun you’re after?”

“Perhaps,” Zayn flirts, shamelessly, and he can’t say that he doesn’t love it when Liam reddens further. “Just an espresso, yeah?”

Liam nods, scuttling away and preparing Zayn’s beverage, and Zayn watches him, unabashed, his eyes following Liam’s movements, trying to catalogue how he looks as he moves about. And, when Liam hands him his drink and walks away to distract himself with something, Zayn’s heart stutters like moths wings when he sees pen on the side of the cup that reads:

_07547632453 – call meeee!!_

_Liam :) xx_

 

**_fin_ **

**Author's Note:**

> [tumblr](http://www.zainsupremacy.tumblr.com/) | comments are very much appreciated! x


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